


We Are Stardust, We Are Golden

by SilverSpoon6609



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Woodstock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13728675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSpoon6609/pseuds/SilverSpoon6609
Summary: “You know, a lot of people think you and her were… together, any comment on that rumor?”He swirls the caramel colored liquor over the ice cubes in his glass, “That the story you really came here for then?”“People are always lookin’ for something to talk about.”“I was with Beth. I was with her for awhile.” He watches the kid’s eyes widen, “Met her at Woodstock though, fixed her sister’s car.”





	1. Chapter 1

_“Well, we’re big rock singers_

_We got golden fingers_

_And we’re loved everywhere we go (that sounds like us)”_

 

 

“I don’t know why Rolling Stone’d wanna talk to me. Ain’t like anything I did was ever in their top hundred anything.” The voicemail was on his phone for three days before he even thought about calling her back, it was another two before he actually did it.

“I know you don’t like this stuff Daryl, but if you could just try. This album is good, you know that. And a nod in Rolling Stone could get the ball rolling on some sales, maybe get you a spot in someone’s tour?”

He thinks about the roof on the house, he’s been wanting to switch it out for a metal one and get some new insulation for the workshop.

“I know you could use a good gig.”

He know’s she’s right, damn agent always is. “Alright, guess I’ll meet him, Michonne.”

The interviewer is younger than Daryl thought he’d be, but he has to give the kid credit for trekking all the way to his place in the mountains in the dead of winter.

“So what’s the deal with this article anyway? Washed up mighta beens?”

The kid sips the whiskey Daryl gave him and makes a face, but he swallows it. “No… it’s about studio musicians and the handful that should’ve been more.”

Daryl shifts in his seat. He already doesn’t like where this is going.

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda I guess.” Daryl downs his drink and pours another.

“When did you start playing music?”

He clears his throat, “I was twelve.”

“After your mother died?”

He hates that people know that. He curses Merle’s big mouth. “Mhmm.”

“What guitarists did you look up to?”

Daryl falls into the easy pattern of questions and answers. It comes much easier than he though it ever could.

“We are running this in a twentieth anniversary article on Woodstock, I know your brother was there, were you?”

He smiles, “Asshole never did anything by himself. Course I was there. Didn’t fly in on a damn helicopter though.” He answers a set of questions about Merle and their notorious days touring. Merle’s story was everywhere when he died, the details kept coming along with the rumors and all Daryl could say was that he wasn’t there. It’s the same questions he always gets but he likes the kid asking them this time.

“I actually have it in my notes that Woodstock was where you met Beth Greene.”

Her name repeats in his ears and sinks into his chest. The kid says it carefully, and something in it lets the weight of the word settle warm and heavy around him instead of knocking him on his ass into headfirst into a bottle.

“Mhmm.” He can’t blame Merle’s ghost for that one.

“I have word that her family is putting out an album with some unreleased tracks.”

Daryl nods, looks out the window. He signed off on it years ago. A manilla envelope postmarked from Connecticut.

“I also have word that you’re featured on quite a few of them.”

“Played together a lot, damn girl could sing.” The air in the room is suddenly heavy, an invisible presence takes over the room.

“You know, a lot of people think you and her were… together, any comment on that rumor?”

He swirls the caramel colored liquor over the ice cubes in his glass, “That the story you really came here for then?”

“People are always lookin’ for something to talk about.”

“Probably gonna snow soon,” Daryl chews on the inside of his lip and curses Michonne for sending the kid. He sips the drink and realizes this decision was made when he gave the kid his address. “I was with Beth. I was with her for awhile.” He watches the kid’s eyes widen, “Met her at Woodstock though, fixed her sister’s car.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since the music is what has inspired pretty much every aspect of this story, I figured I would give a track listing for each chapter. 
> 
> Chapter 1  
> 1\. Woodstock - Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young  
> 2\. The Cover of the Rolling Stone - Dr. Hook  
> 3\. The Shape I'm In - The Band  
> 4\. Brown-Eyed Woman - The Grateful Dead (specifically the Europe '72 version)
> 
> I hope anyone who reads this checks out the music to go along. Each scene of this story is playing out very vividly for me and I hope the music helps it do the same for you!


	2. Chapter 2

  
Daryl was never able to figure out exactly where the truck came from, but knowing Merle, he had a pretty good idea. It showed up one day in front of their father’s rotting front stoop. It was cleaner and newer than anything Daryl had ever seen at the place. Merle just told him to take care of the brakes before they headed out. 

“The hell you talkin’ about? Where we goin’?”

They’ve spent the last day and a half driving north and arguing about chord progressions, harmonies, and Daryl’s supposedly lacking shifting abilities. Sleeping in the truck doesn’t really bother him, not after spending most of his nights in the rusted out Ford next to the shed. His legs are tired and restless from driving the whole time. Merle dropped acid in Virginia and spent six hours singing out guitar riffs for Daryl to remember. Two were actually worth it and he worked them out into something useful while Merle followed some redhead into a truck stop bathroom.

They’ve been in New York for awhile and the traffic just keeps getting heavier as they pass by farms and cows and groups of buildings that barely pass for towns.

It’s just past dawn on Friday and Daryl’s drinking his last Coke. Merle’s next to him, breathing fast, moving around in the passenger seat. The nightmares aren’t getting any better. He wakes up with a jerk and fumbles to light up a joint before rolling down the window. Merle takes another hit, passes it to his brother, calls out, “Woah there, Darlina,” and waves his good hand out the window for Daryl to pull over.

They leave the truck on the side of the road, Merle takes the plate off the back and tosses it into the bushes. 

“I’ll find you in a bit baby brother, gotta take care of few things before we head up to this shit show. Heard about some pig who might be able to get us a slot onstage.” 

Nothing more than a clap on the back and Daryl is left standing alone at the last stop sign at the edge of some small town. He isn’t carrying much, just his guitar and Merle’s Army issued backpack. He should be used to this sort of thing but it just doesn’t sit right with him, being alone. He’s been with Merle nearly everyday since he got back six months ago.

The traffic heading out of the small town is absurd and he has absolutely no idea where Merle went or when he’ll be back. He doesn’t know how far he is from the field or the main road. There are people everywhere, long hair and smiles, he starts walking, following the train of cars driving off three wide into the middle of nowhere.  
  
“Maggie, I really don’t want to miss Sweetwater, you said it was just outta gas!”

“Well, obviously there’s something else wrong or else it would’ve started.”

He can see a brunette with short cropped hair leaning over into the open hood of a newish Impala wagon. The first voice comes from behind the car, he can’t see her. The traffic is moving by them, just above a crawl.

“I don’t get it though, it looks fine from what I can tell.”

“It isn’t fine. They’re supposed to open the show you know. It’s the reason I wanted to come!”

“I want to get there too you know, I’m supposed to meet some people from school.”

Daryl steps up, from this angle he can see the other girl. She’s got her hands on her hips and a frustrated scowl on her face. Her blond hair is braided into pigtails, she looks too young to be here. He walks around the car and stands next to her. “You look more the Dylan type. Heard he was supposed to show, lives ‘round here or somethin’.” 

She jumps at his voice.

“Lemme see?” He motions toward the open hood and tries to ignore the daggers being thrown from both women.

The brunette nods. He puts his guitar and bag on the ground, nearly on top of the blond’s feet. “Don’t let no one take that.”

She raises an eyebrow at the battered guitar case and frayed backpack.

Daryl rolls his eyes and moves to the car, spoiled brat.

He looks at it and pokes around for a minute. Easy fix.

“Any gas left in that can?” 

The brunette, Maggie if he heard right, hands it to him. Should be just enough. He unscrews the carb filter and pours what’s left in the carburetor.

He motions for Maggie to start it. She does, and sure enough it starts up.

The blond is tracking his steps with her eyes, he can feel it. He has to clear his throat before he can talk. “Fuel line was dried out, nothing was gettin’ to the carb. Happens a lot.”

“Thanks…” Maggie stretches out her hand.

“Daryl. Uh, Daryl Dixon.”

“Maggie and Beth Greene. You going to the show too?”

“Mhmm.”

Beth picks up his guitar and backpack and puts them carefully in the backseat. “Well, come on then Mr. Dixon.”

Maggie just stands there against the idling car as Beth rounds to the passenger side. She nods to the backseat and without really thinking about it, Daryl gets in.

He can’t see either end of the line of cars. They’ve been inching forward for about an hour when Maggie turns around.

“So what’s with the beat up case?” 

Daryl scoffs, “Not up to your standards, princess?”

She looks at him, eyes hard, “I mean, do you actually play? The last guy we picked up on the way here had a guitar case full of drugs.”

He keeps an eye on her and drums his fingers on the case. “Got a couple joints in there, but yeah, I play.”

The blond turns around to him when the traffic starts up again. “What kinda guitar is it?”

“Gibson, nothing fancy.” 

“You been playing for awhile? You any good?”

“You got a lotta questions, girl.” He chews on his cheek and looks out the window. People are walking by faster than they’re moving. So many damn people. “I’m alright.”

“Why don’t ya play something? We’re gonna be sitting here awhile, I can sing.” 

“I don’t play no Mary Had A Little Lamb.” 

Maggie laughs, “Told you Bethy, you look like a five year old with those pigtails.”

The girl huffs, “I’ll be eighteen in two months, leave my hair alone! You’re just jealous cause you went and chopped all yours off!”

Daryl can’t help but grin, “Come on, quit it now,” he flips open the guitar case, “y’all are worse than my damn brother.” He looks her in the eye, “So whadda you know, songbird?”  


 

***

 

The room is quiet enough that Daryl can hear the drag of the pen across the kid’s notebook. His ears are buzzing with the memory of her voice and the warmth of the whiskey is wicked away when he leans against the window.

“Do you remember what you played?”

He just stares at the kid from across the table, “Don’t matter.”

“You remember though?”

“Course I do.” 

 

 

_There’s no need for anger, there’s no need for blame_

_There’s nothing to prove, everything’s still the same_

_Just a table standing empty by the edge of the sea_

_Means farewell, Angelina, the sky is trembling and I must leave_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Track Listing
> 
> 1\. Going Up the Country - Canned Heat  
> 2\. The Weight - The Band  
> 3\. Farewell Angelina - Joan Baez


	3. Chapter 3

They finally agreed to pull the car over as far as they could and walk the rest of the way. A helicopter touched down nearby, he pointed out the trees swaying. Daryl carried the small tent and lit a joint while Maggie and Beth argued about setting up near Groovy Way or Easy Street. He finally just handed Beth the joint and set the tent up himself not far from the sign. Maggie double checked his knots and barely waved as she left to find her friends.

“I could leave my shit here?”

Beth nods takes a test hit and watches him put his things in the tent, “Why’d you bring a guitar to a concert?”

Daryl looks at her, takes the joint, and a decent hit. “I didn’t have anywhere else to keep it.”

She raises her eyebrows, “Don’t you have house?”

“Would’ve been sold before I even made it outta town.”

He dies out the roach and puts it in his pocket before starting to walk toward the stage. He calls back to her over his shoulder, “Let’s go see what’s happenin’, should be some music soon. Said you wanted to see Sweetwater?”

“They’re supposed to be opening,” She rushes to catch up to him.

They walk in step with each other for a while.

“Wonder if my brother made it in yet.”

“See if you can find him, let him know where you’re set up.”

Daryl nods, “I ain’t letting him near your tent, I’ll meet you back there though?”

Beth answers, “Sure, you gonna remember where it is?”

A mostly hidden smile peeks out from behind his greasy hair and he looks around, a hand painted sign post stands out. Someone is selling sandwiches out of their car and joints out of their suitcase. “Half way between Easy Street and Groovy Way. Hard to miss.” He can’t hide the smile in his voice. The brightness of her eyes stands out against the clouds rolling in the sky, makes him feel light.

He takes a few steps away before turning back. “You gonna be alright? I mean…”

Beth grins and turns to follow her sister’s path to a small village of tents popping up along the tree line. She calls to him over her shoulder, “Will you?”

 

The people keep pouring in, Daryl is sure he saw a fence go down from a distance. There is no way he’ll be able to find Merle here. No fucking way. A second helicopter touches down in the next field over. The clouds are rolling, getting darker, it’s definitely going to rain. At least there’s a tent he can sit in. Daryl starts to make his way to the stage.

He hears the blades of the chopper and heads to the fence that is still standing just in time to see Merle. Damn guy is stepping off the helicopter, turning to wave at at some cop still on board before slinging his bum arm around a young kid carrying a guitar case. He grins like a maniac when his eyes land on Daryl nearby.

“Here you go, baby brother, take a drink.” He takes the canteen and watches Merle step away from the helicopter, smiling and waving at two cops that look like they just flew in from Mayberry.

“Hey man, you sure it’s okay to give him that?” The guy with the guitar says, still half yelling.

Merle claps him on the back, “Sure, he’s a Dixon, he’ll be fine. Let’s get this movin’!”

 

Daryl's thought is cut off, he practically forgot the kid was even there. “He came in on a helicopter?”

“Fuckin’ did.” He pours another glass for each of them, “The kid with the guitar was Arlo Guthrie. Merle met him in a hotel or something. I guess he couldn’t get into town on account of the traffic so they flew him in on a chopper, brought Merle along with him.” Daryl smiles to himself, “Heard he tells that story when he plays shows now.”

The kid is staring at Daryl, eyes wide.

“It was laced, right? The water.”

The kid is looking at Daryl like he has the damn holy grail in his hands.

“Yeah it was laced. First and only timed I ever tripped. I was a mess.”

 

The people around him are ebbing and flowing, Sweetwater has finally made it to the stage.

He can see something dark moving behind the speakers.

The thing, he still can’t tell what it is, starts to slink and sneak closer, hitching along in the barely there shadows of the rain soaked afternoon crowd.

“Merle! Merle, the hell’s going on?” He can feel himself yelling as he wanders through the smiling faces. The thing is following him around. It’s beady eyes are in the faces of everyone around him. It’s needle sharp teeth are in the rain drops. Panic is taking a hold of him, taking him over. If it’s part of everything then it’s part of him.

He spends hours trying to evade it, a dark shadow sliding through the raindrops. Silent in the sound of conversations and now sitars. The people around him are fading in and out. A deer bounds towards the trees, golds and greens swirling along behind it, weaving between soaked, half naked, dancing bodies. There’s a tent, there’s a tent somewhere or maybe he’s in the tent?

The voices on the stage have changed out again, isn’t he supposed to be paying attention to them? The sounds are skipping and dragging, warped and twisted like the Billie Holiday record he tried to play after the fire. He can’t breathe, his shirt and his belt are choking him. It’s not much of a struggle before they fall to the ground.

The thing is back, he can see it now. Chupacabra.

Daryl whines, low and panicked. It’s nails tear into his back as he turns, fingers searching for a knife or a bow. He comes out with a guitar pick.

“Daryl?”

The claws burn and it’s eyes flash in front of his before it morphs and is absorbed into his body. They are stinging and tearing at his insides, burning him down to a dried out husk. Eating away at his insides until he’s nothing but a shell doing it’s bidding. Merle, where the fuck is Merle? Does it have him too?

He shakes his head, Merle isn’t here, he can’t be here. There was wind though, heavy, fast blades chopping steadily through the air.

“A helicopter, he just... dropped in from the sky...”

“Daryl?”

A face appears above him, beautiful and framed by a halo of blond hair. He is in a tent. It’s not the one he set up. He’s laying on a cot.

He sits up and looks at man sitting next to him, “She knows my name.”

The man nods, “She does, she your girl, brother?”

“She’s... she sings...” The thing is back. A dark quick shadow creeping into the edge of his vision. He turns to follow it and watches it drop into a vat of oatmeal. There are people all around him cooking.

He vaguely hears her talk to the guy, something about their own tent, water. He stands and follows her. She’s singing along with the voice from the stage, “Take me back to the place where I first saw the light, to the sweet, sunny South, take me home.” His mama used to sing it, he doesn’t have a choice but to follow. Her voice is soft but he can hear it clearly, every other sound fading into the background. A pied piper leading him away. His eyes fall closed and his steps slow.

He lags behind her and her voice fades, his eyes snap open and it’s there between them. Snarling and foaming like rabid dog, but it’s eyes are daggers, driving back and forth. Locked on him, locked on her.

“There…why’s he here? Why?” His voice is high pitched.

“What’re you talking about?” Her words are quick, “Daryl?”

He lets out a guttural groan, “I don’t want it here, I don’t want him here.” He can feel the tears running into his mouth but they’re doing nothing to quench the burn, hundreds of cigarettes fizzling out as they’re pressed into his guts. His insides are plotted out in neat lines, the deer diagram hanging in the shed, little black ash marks popping up until he just disintegrates into nothing.

“I’m just gonna hold your hand Daryl.” Beth slowly threads her fingers into his, “Hey, I’m here. Me and you, okay?”

The claws slowly retract, the gaping holes in his back knit themselves closed as her grip tightens to match his.

He can feel the rain. Cool and drizzling over his bare torso. His bare feet in the slick grass, what the hell happened to his shoes? Daryl breaths in and can feel every molecule of air in his lungs. It’s full of her hair, bright and soft. “Mmm… I…”

“Me and you. Listening to music. You hear it?”

The claws retract, disappearing into the shadows cast by the light of her sun bleached hair that has somehow dismissed the cloud-filled, midnight sky.

She’s singing again. Words in perfect time with the faded sounds from the stage,

 _And let me wrap you in my warm and tender love_  
_I said it'll be alright if you just let me_  
_Let me wrap you in my warm and tender love_  
_Oh baby, come on and let me_  

 

He stares out the window. They are both quiet for a long time.

"I read that for you growing up was... well your brother said that it was... Merle told people your fath..."

"That my daddy beat the shit outta me?"

The kid doesn't say anything.

"That my chest was practically an ashtray and my back looks like some drunk played tic tac toe on it with a belt? Ya wanna see it? Is that what y'er gettin’ at? Get out yer camera, come on then."

The kid coughs and shifts around in his seat. 

"My sob story ain't good enough?" Daryl eyes are fixed in a glare as his fingers hover over the buttons of his flannel. "Come on kid, I ain't shy, I can show pony just like every other washed up rock star."

"I...uh...I don't..."

He pops the top three buttons open in one harsh tug and pulls down the left side of his white undershirt. The skin on his chest is mottled with puckered, pinkish white circles and the four bold letters in delicate script can't help but stand out. His fingers ghost over the B, following the scrolling flourish. He doesn't even look down, the movement is ingrained, memorized through years of repetition.

Daryl's hands are trembling, he drops them below the table.

The kid drops his eyes in suit and reaches for the disappearing bottle between them, he fumbles with the half screwed on cap. "The...the uh... chupacabra... from the trip. It was him, right? I mean, your father?"

He deflates, his shoulders fold in and Daryl brings his right hand to rest over his heart, over her name, "Mhmm, prolly."

He downs the offered drink in one gulp. He thinks about his dreams. The ones he's had for years that leave him lying awake drenched in sweat in the middle of the winter. The ones where he wakes up calling out for her as the thing, the chupacabra, claws into her skull and drags her away leaving him stranded in the darkness. He dreams about Merle, sometimes he can picture what he must've looked like struggling to get her out of the truck with his one good arm, the blades of a helicopter lowering closer and closer.

The kid is still staring, "Uh, Mr. Dix...Daryl?"

He sighs and drags his hand down his face, rubbing at his chin. "She stayed with me. The whole rest of the weekend. Watched every damn band, barely slept." 

“What band… who was your favorite set? Do you remember any of them?” The kid smiles at his own half joke.

Beautiful body moving in time to Latin guitars, smiling at his reticence.

Watching the sun set behind her, somewhere up the country where the water tastes like wine.

Heavy blues rock as she lay resting, her head in his lap.

Talking during set breaks and technical problems.

Standing in the dwindling crowd with a bad moon rising.

Sunday morning, her hair down free, and freedom tastes of reality.

Wouldn’t he love somebody to love?

She didn’t sing out of tune and for the first time in a very long time, it did worry him to be alone.

Forget the piece of his heart, the whole damn thing was hers.

“I remember her.” He grabs the bottle, "She’s the one who remembered all damn set lists.”

 

 _If you can just get your mind together_  
_Then come on across to me_  
_We'll hold hands an' then we'll watch the sun rise_  
_From the bottom of the sea_  
_But first_

 _Are You Experienced?_  
_Ah! Have you ever been experienced?_  
_Well, I have_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to go big with this chapter...I mean they're at Woodstock. It should go without saying, please assume I mean the Live at Woodstock version for each song!
> 
> Chapter 3 Track Listing
> 
> 1\. Coming in to Los Angeles - Arlo Guthrie  
> 2\. Feelin' Alright - Joe Cocker  
> 3\. White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane  
> 4\. With A Little Help From My Friends - Richie Havens  
> 5\. Take Me Back To The Sweet Sunny South - Joan Baez  
> 6\. I'm Free - The Who  
> 7\. Somebody to Love - Jefferson Airplane  
> 8\. Piece of My Heart - Janis Joplin  
> 9\. Hey Joe - Jimi Hendrix  
> 10\. Are You Experienced? - Jimi Hendrix (this was not part of his Woodstock set)  
> 6.


	4. Chapter 4

The kid just kind of looks at him.

“It was the defining event of your generation. You’re a professional musician. You were there with your brother and bandmate, but you don’t even have a favorite set, all that stands out is Beth?”

Daryl blinks hard at the cold journalistic question and chews the inside of his lip. “I mean, it was a bunch of dirty hippies in a field. I wasn’t into all that cultural shit, Merle mostly made it back from ‘Nam. That was all I gave a shit about before then.” He gestures with the bottle and sips at the whiskey, “The music woulda been great if there weren’t so many problems, was raining the whole damn time. She was the, what’d you say… defining event?”

“Well, well what about after?”

“Thought this was about Woodstock. I’m done with that story.” He gets up and moves to stoke the fire.

“You said she was the defining event. I know you two recorded together, there is footage of you at her father’s house. I know you played a show in her hometown the week after the festival.”

Daryl stares into the flames, pokes at the ashes and adds another log. Something is gnawing at him to just tell the kid, to spill the whole story out and let it lay there out in front of them both. He thinks of her gentle voice and way of understanding what he was saying with him having to think about opening his mouth. He thinks of all the abandoned words, every quiet, drawn out night full of whispers and thoughts that he would give anything to tell her.

He goes to the kitchen for another bottle.

“If I’m doing this,” He pours himself another glass, “I ain’t doing it sober.”

 

_See the lonely boy,_   
_out on the weekend_   
_Trying to make it pay._   
_Can't relate to joy,_   
_he tries to speak and_   
_Can't begin to say._

 

The theater they got booked at was a decent size, a few big names had played there recently and the night had started off with the buzz of a change in the air.  
Daryl did not expect to be wandering the city green an hour and a half later, energy from the stage still coursing through him, bandana pressed on a gash at his hairline. Merle must be close, but the green was quiet aside from a few people milling around leaving one hole in the wall bar for another. There was music coming from a small bar, a simple guitar and beautiful voice calling him like a moth to a damn flame.

He is not surprised at all that it’s Beth sitting in the corner singing Bobby McGee. He grins a little at her cutoff denim and the memory of her thigh pressed against his in the backseat as Maggie lets the car idle outside the gas station. Her hand entangled with his as she scribbled down her address. Her lips on his before he climbed out of the car to go meet Merle.  
He never told Merle why he chose Connecticut as their stop. Daryl doesn’t tell him why he isn’t excited about this cross country train ride Merle’s signed them up for. Merle just asks if he got any pussy or any good pot.

He watches her play. He watches her eyes go big and her face light up when she looks around the room. He never realizes that it only happens once she spots him. He waits by the door while she puts her guitar, a Martin he can’t help but notice, in it’s case. He wraps his free arm around her when she hugs him.

“What happened to you?”

“Somebody wanted to hear Johnny Winter and not me." The joke falls flat, her eyes are narrowed at the balled up bandana, "Got clipped with a bottle, think it was a Rolling Rock.”

Her hand lands on his wrist, blue eyes focused, brows furrowed in concern. “Alright, come back to my place. It’s not far and my Daddy can fix you up.” She goes up on her tip toes and ghosts her lips against his cheek, "I missed you."

She talks about watching Iron Butterfly play at the high school and how she wakes up thinking about his eyes and the way his lips look when he says her name. He tells her about having to ditch the car they picked up in New York and grabbing a spot on a train tour, whispers how he's still having dreams with the chupacabra and waking up reaching for her.

They find Merle nearly passed out at a bus stop on the way to her house.

The neighborhood is quiet, rows of little white houses. Neighbors, families whose patriarchs all fought in Europe. It’s late, late enough for street lights but not late enough for silence. People are sitting on their porches, radios are playing, Merle is mumbling about Tommy James and the Shondells.

Daryl is immediately ushered into the kitchen where a white haired man on a crutch cleans his split skin and declares he does not need stitches, or any more beer. Beth is holding his hand the whole time. Her father definitely notices. Daryl can feel the man’s eyes boring into him as his daughter tells the story of them being chased off stage.

Beth goes to sit on the porch with Merle while Daryl cleans himself off. The bathroom is clean, soap and towels exactly where they should be. He finds himself staring at his reflection for a little too long when a tap on the door startles him.

"You alright in there boy?"

He leaves the bathroom to come face to face with her father. "I'm alright."

"Hmm." The older man looks him over, "Bethy says you're quite the guitar player."

Daryl shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention.

"She hasn't stopped talking about you since she snuck off with her sister to that festival. You hurt my little girl you're gonna have worse than a Rolling Rock to the skull."

"I ain't ever gonna hurt her." Daryl forces himself to look the older man in the eye before following him out.

They go to the porch where Merle has parked himself. There is a video camera on a tripod and Beth is fiddling with a tape recorder.

“My brother, Shawn, he wanted to work for the radio or TV. He showed me how to do all this before he went to Vietnam.” She’s talking to Merle who has stirred a bit and is watching her. She looks up when his height blocks the light. “I figure you couldn’t play your show and mine was only two songs anyhow. We can play a few together, if you’re up for it?”

“I’ll play,” Daryl steps away from where he's leaning on the door, doesn’t give the camera a second thought. “Merle only got one good hand anyhow. We can let him warble along I guess.” He picks up her guitar resting on the floorboards and settles down on the step across from her. “You know Barbara Allen?”

Beth smiles at the new shadow in the doorway, “That’s Daddy’s favorite.”

 

He doesn’t realize his fingers are tapping out a rhythm on the table until he moves to lift his glass.

“Did you ever see that footage? From that night?”

He just shakes his head. He can picture the rows of white houses reflecting the street lights.

“It’s what started the rumors, about you and Beth.”

The kid keeps talking. Daryl remembers exactly how the shadow from the porch light framed her face. That night started more than just rumors.

 

He lets the final notes fade off as Merle is calling out suggestions. “Play something I can sing, Darylina. Some Leadbelly.”

Daryl ignores the drunken jab and nods as he begins to play. Merle’s voice starts in on the first verse, it’s rough and thick with too much whiskey. Daryl changes his pace and style, slower and lower, to match. Beth comes in on the chorus and coaxes Merle through the second verse.

Merle stumbles on the third, and Daryl isn’t even thinking about the camera. He switches to a simpler chord and takes over the lyrics.

_I love Irene, God knows I do_   
_I’ll love her till the sea runs dry_   
_If she ever loves another_   
_I’m gonna take morphine and die._

He remembers looking up from his guitar and meeting her eyes as the words tumbled from his lips. He remembers the exact timbre of her voice carrying through the night air. He remembers her father watching from the open door as Merle drunkenly moved on to another song. He remembers sitting on the steps, letting his gaze rest on her as the final notes slow to an end.

"These old floor boards are awful creaky, boy, and I sleep lighter than a feather." Her father turns into the house.

Daryl can't help the embarrassment creeping up his neck.

"I better be heading in, you guys are leaving in the morning?"

"Mhmm, trains leaves at eight. Heading to New York and then up to Montreal, I guess." He stands and glances at Merle who has walked into the yard and is still humming bars of a Leadbelly song. "You could come, you know?"

 

"You got a hotel or something, kid?"

Daryl doesn't care that it's harsh. He doesn't care that it's abrupt. He calls a taxi and practically pushes the kid out the door with the promise that he can come back to hear about the train.

He practically falls into his recliner. Staring at the flames and thinking about that night.

 

They found a motel by the highway but Merle is no where to be found when a soft knock wakes Daryl up.

"Oh."

"Hey Daryl." Beth is standing there in her cut off denim shorts and white blouse. A familiar duffle is at her feet and a guitar case in her hand.

"What're you doing, girl?" He doesn't try to hide the sleep in his voice.

She grins a little, "I couldn't just let you walk off into the night, Daryl."

There are nights that he wishes he never felt her lips against his, never let her bright eyes into his heart. Nights when the memory of her touch is nothing but torture, but there are also nights like this one. Nights when he can taste the salt of her sweat as he pulled her perfect pink nipple into his mouth or catch the slightest remnant of her scent when she came on his tongue. When the memory is so crystal clear that his hand drifts down and he comes hard and fast just like he did that first night, with her name on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took quite awhile, sorry about that.
> 
> 1\. Out on the Weekend - Neil Young  
> 2\. Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin (preferably the demo version)  
> 3\. Barbara Allen - Blackmore's Night  
> 4\. Goodnight Irene - Tom Waits  
> 5\. In the Pines - Leadbelly  
> 6\. Her Eyes Are a Blue Million Miles - Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band


End file.
